


Burn Me Away

by annabeth



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, F/M, JJBella, M/M, Pliroy, Unresolved Sexual Tension, otayuri - Freeform, sort-of cheating but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-02-03 10:25:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12746451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth/pseuds/annabeth
Summary: Plisetsky's wearing an expression like he wants to kill JJ, possibly by strangling him with his own gold medal. JJ finds it… cute.





	Burn Me Away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Blownwish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blownwish/gifts).



> This is HEAVILY influenced by [Blownwish](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Blownwish)'s work. It's not intended to be derivative, and I hope she finds it flattering, but I've been helping beta her fics of late and some of that style seeped into mine. ♥ you, darling.

JJ thought he met the love of his life in high school, when he first got Isabella Yang to go out with him. He skated, he did his homework, he went to Mass, and he prayed every night that the beautiful girl with the black hair and red, red lips would be his forever.

That was then, when he was a child. He's never felt so sure that he must have been, because at Skate Canada, just after he wins the gold, he glances down to the competitor next to him on the podium.

Yuri Plisetsky, from Russia. The silver medallist. He's wearing an expression like he wants to kill JJ, possibly by strangling him with his own gold medal. JJ finds it… cute. And that won't do at all. Izzy is waiting for him back in Montreal. Her parents wouldn't let her take time away from school even to travel to to Toronto—just in case he made the Grand Prix Final—but she's still expecting a phone call.

And Yuri Plisetsky is only fifteen years old. He's younger than JJ was when he asked Izzy out. He's too young.

But there's something there—something hot, beneath the roiling hatred, that isn't hatred at all. And JJ bites his gold for the cameras, and for Yuri Plisetsky.

Just because.

++

"It's fine, baby," JJ says. "I'll be home soon. Go to sleep, I know it's late. The banquet ran overlong and I wouldn't have called at all except you texted me." JJ's got a glass of water on the night table and the hotel Bible open on his lap where he's stretched out on the bed.

"Okay," Izzy says. "I miss you. I love you."

He pictures her: she's probably wearing a bathrobe, her dark hair recently brushed. Her lips probably look as red as if he'd just kissed her—her lips always look like that. Someday he'll know what they taste like.

Unbidden, an image of Yuri Plisetsky fills his mind's eye: _his_ lips are pink. And JJ doesn't mean to, but he wonders whether they'd redden if kissed.

He knows she loves him. He loves her. He doesn't know why, in this equation of one plus one, it equals three. That's not right. He's going to have to do better.

"Goodnight, baby," he says. "Blowing you a kiss, right now."

"I caught it," she replies. "Goodnight, JJ."

Izzy always hangs up first; JJ can't bring himself to break the connection. He flips a page in the Bible; he sets the alarm on his Samsung phone and plonks it on the night table.

He's already brushed his teeth, but he's waited thirty minutes for the Colgate mouthwash to set, so he takes a long swig of the water in the glass, reads the next prayer, the next page, and quietly repeats his daily prayers.

But as he's closing his eyes, falling asleep, his brain offers one more: _let Yuri Plisetsky notice me._

++

This is _not_ what JJ meant, if he meant anything at all by a half-assed prayer that he didn't even intend to send winging up to God. Surely God doesn't expect JJ to—what?

"Hey, I'm talking to you," the kid says.

"Were you? I didn't see you there. You're so short I practically have to bend down to see you."

"Fuck you!"

The question is, though, _why_ is Yuri Plisetsky talking to him? The kid looks adorable in a Russia tracksuit with the hood up, his blond hair mostly hidden. Nothing can hide the snap of those green eyes, though.

"The only time I wouldn't have to is when you're standing on that step, just down below me," JJ says, laughing when Plisetsky bears his teeth and literally _growls_ , like an angry cat.

"I said, I'm gonna kick your ass." This is Moscow, his home turf, and he probably does believe he's going to take home the Rostelecom gold. But not if JJ has anything to say about it.

"I have more quads than you. I have a higher base score. You're just a Russian punk who thinks he's more important than he is." JJ moves to walk away, to continue to his hotel room, the one he finally gets to have all to himself—this competition season, his parents are giving him some freedom.

_"We trust you," Alain said. "With your steady girl and your Christian values, your maman and I know that you will follow the path God has set before you. And in case temptation comes calling your way: no women, drinking, or cavorting. No sleepovers in your hotel room."_

_"You know we'll be on the floor below you," Nathalie said. "If you need anything, lovey, you just—"_

_"_ Maman _," JJ broke in, flushing. "Please. Not that nickname anymore. That's for babies."_

_His mother turned a little red too. Alain gave JJ a serious eyebrow. His father could communicate entire sermons just by the way he raised his eyebrow, and which one. It was the left one, this time, and that meant: mind your mother's feelings._

_"I'm sorry, Maman," JJ said. He quickly went over and kissed her cheek._

_"Remember what I said. This is a privilege, not a right, and it can be revoked. With that said, get enough rest, drink enough water, and enjoy the competition, son." Alain ruffled his undercut, the first haircut he'd gotten to choose for himself._

But just as he slips the keycard into the slot, a small hand slams into his back, coincidentally—or is it?—directly into his tattoo at the base of his spine.

"You've got a fucking tramp stamp," the foul-mouthed brat says. "You a fucking tramp, Jean-Jacques Leroy? You drill your girl with your dick? Do you praise God while you shove it in her pussy?"

JJ turns around, slowly, because his face is flaming and he can't tell if it's fury at the slights against Isabella and himself, or the fact that Plisetsky's hand was hot against his back, and now JJ is hot somewhere else—and it's not under the collar.

"Show some respect," he says quietly. "And no, me and Izzy are waiting till marriage."

"Ha," Plisetsky says. "You really think you're gonna marry the bitch? How old are you again?"

"How old are _you_?" JJ asks evenly. But he knows so well, and no nineteen-year-old should even be seen talking to a fifteen-year-old outside of the rink. Why, his parents have already explained to him that he's an adult, and that his best job is to mentor the younger kids, not hit on them.

But JJ knows the shameful truth: he's been hitting on Plisetsky, whether the kid realizes it or not. JJ's been taunting him to get a reaction; he's been even more obnoxious than usual, according to the other skaters.

The problem is, Plisetsky is in _his_ division now. He's part of the Seniors and that means he can talk to whomever he pleases, even if it's JJ Leroy, and even if JJ Leroy knows better.

He does know better. So he tugs the keycard out of the slot.

"Go back to your room, kitten. Drink some apple juice and make sure to pee before bed so you don't have any accidents."

"Oh, _fuck_ you," Plisetsky says. "My cock works just fine, thank you very much. You want me to show you?"

JJ blinks. He's not sure how Plisetsky arrived at the conclusion that—

"I mean I whack it," he explains sarcastically. "I don't use it just to piss. So fuck you."

Now JJ's flushed down to his chest, he can feel the redness spreading. He wasn't—he hadn't been—but now he's thinking of it. Of what Plisetsky might look like.

He's going to have to say the rosary at least twice to make up for this.

"Go to bed," JJ says in a tight voice, keeping a leash on his anger with effort. God doesn't praise anger; He doesn't like wrath. It's a Deadly Sin, and JJ is not going to trot down that path to hellfire and damnation.

"Fine. See if I care," Plisetsky says. But then he surprises JJ: he slams into him, palms outward against JJ's chest, and while JJ's staring down at pink, pink lips in stunned silence, Plisetsky winds a hand around JJ's neck and yanks him down.

By the time JJ can breathe again, Plisetsky— _Yuri_ —has disappeared down the hallway, and JJ's just touching his abraded lips.

Yuri might masturbate—but JJ has his doubts that he's ever been kissed before.

++

Barcelona breaks JJ's heart.

++

Yuri wins both gold and Otabek Altin in Barcelona. He updates his Instagram, and JJ spends most of the night after the short program crying in his room. He knows Izzy is in this hotel, too, but he doesn't want to see her face, or the sadness and pity in her blue eyes.

No, he wants to be alone. He's staring at his new phone—the spoils of a new sponsorship, he's got an iPhone now—and the picture on Yuri's Instagram, of him and Altin at some scenic spot in Barcelona. JJ feels his heart clench.

He gets up, and paces back and forth across the room once, then opens the minibar.

But he just takes out a Dasani and unscrews the cap, swallowing half the bottle in one go. He's marketable now—or he was, before his disastrous program—and that means he can drink bottled water instead of tap water. But he's gonna be _lucky_ if he medals now.

The Bible was no comfort. His rosary, either. His mind wants just one thing.

The knock on the door startles him so bad he drops the bottle of water, which thankfully has the cap back on. JJ leaves it where it's rolled against a chair leg and goes to the door. Maybe it's his maman? She would know he wanted to be alone, but she might feel like it's her duty as his mother to comfort him.

So he opens the door.

Yuri is standing there. His cheeks are pink. His lips are slightly swollen and slightly red, as if he's been biting them.

"Let me in, freak," Yuri says, but without even waiting he just shoves past. "You did so awful you'll never win gold now." He pauses. "Close the fucking door; are you an idiot?"

JJ shuts the door.

"But, uh, you can have me." Yuri, for the first time, isn't meeting JJ's eyes belligerently. He's got his green gaze fixed on the carpet like he's trying to count the flecks in it.

"I—what?" JJ is astonished. He's actually forgotten that he was crying; when he reaches up to touch his head, in case he bonked it on something, he finds tears still drying on his face.

"You wanted to fuck me, right?" Yuri glances up; his lip is between his teeth, and the sight sends a jolt through JJ. It lodges in his dick, and just like that, JJ's half-hard.

"I-I never said that," JJ splutters, and Yuri's face turns the red of a cooked lobster. "How did you form that impression?"

"You stare," Yuri says. "You're always staring at my fucking ass."

"You prance around the locker room in nothing but your dance belt!" JJ protests. "If I'm looking it's just because you're advertising!"

"Nah, it's because you fucking _want_ it," Yuri says, with a sudden new confidence that wasn't there five seconds prior. "You're a tramp, JJ. Just like your fucking tattoo proves."

"I'm a virgin!" JJ cries, and then realizes that maybe that's not going to win him any points in Plisetsky's playbook. "I mean, ah—"

"I _know_ that, you idiot," Yuri says scornfully. "But you're still a tramp. Do you whack it, JJ?"

JJ feels his cheeks burn; his dick, though, is burning too—with heat and blood. There's always one Hail Mary on his rosary reserved for the times he masturbates, because even though he knows his father wouldn't approve, sometimes he can't help it—it feels like he'll just blow up without the release.

"I thought so. So. Fuck me."

JJ is halfway across the room, his eyes trained on those challenging green ones, when he stops to think about what he's doing.

Izzy is in this hotel with him. She's wearing his ring, and she's waiting for him to come to her pure and chaste. So that means this is a left turn the wrong way down a one way street. He can't.

That kiss from Moscow burns on his lips, but JJ licks it away, both the sensation and the memory.

"I'm not going to," JJ says. The green eyes widen, and they are suddenly unsure. "I don't need your pity."

"It's not pity, you asshole, it's fucking sex! I'm horny, and you want me. What's the big fucking deal?"

"You got the wrong idea, kid," JJ says; but it feels like there's a bowling ball stuck in his throat. No amount of swallowing is helping.

"Fine." Yuri seems to like that word. "Fuck you, loser." He stomps over to the door, flings it open, and is gone.

++

JJ picks up bronze in Barcelona, and regrets letting Yuri walk out that door. So, at Worlds, he tries to catch Yuri's eye. To send some sort of signal.

But when Yuri wins gold, he's only got eyes for Altin. He crowds up against Otabek every time they're in each other's vicinity, which is often.

Once, JJ manages to snag Altin's attention. His old rinkmate is wearing his usual dour expression, but when his dark eyes alight on JJ, he stretches, lifting his arms above his head.

There is a bruise on his hipbone, exposed by his shirt when he stretched. It looks like small, even teeth. JJ flushes when he identifies it as a hickey.

Later that night, on his iPhone, he sees Yuri's updated Instagram again. Just pale, milk-white hands forming a heart over a familiar bruise. A familiar _hickey_. Yuri's hand; Otabek's hipbone.

JJ leaves his heart behind in Helsinki.

++

"Hey, baby, what's the matter?" Izzy sounds so perfect, her voice so lovely, but it doesn't do anything for JJ. He thinks about every time he's ever masturbated, and realizes he never once imagined her as he got himself off.

No, before Plisetsky, he doesn't even remember what got him off, but after Plisetsky—as if it's some kind of messed up timeline of his life, like before Christ and anno Domini—he only thought of green eyes, pale, milk-white skin, and pink, pink buttocks or pink, pink lips.

"It's nothing. Hey, I'll call you tomorrow."

"O-okay," she says, sounding unsure. Like she can possibly help him with what ails him—nothing is going to help with that, not even Father Dubois. "I love you, babe."

"Goodnight, Izzy," he says, and disconnects. He hopes she didn't notice that he didn't say he loved her in return.

The truth is, JJ's stomach has been twisted in knots since Barcelona, when he had a prime, golden chance, and he turned it down. But the terrible truth is that JJ's very much afraid he only loves one person, and it's someone he can never have.

His iPhone pings. JJ turns the stupid piece of technology over. It's just one more way for his heart to break.

He doesn't need to look at the notification to know Yuri just uploaded a photo.

And he doesn't need to look at the photo to know that Altin will be prominently featured in it.

JJ paces his apartment; his parents finally decided he was old enough, at twenty, not to have to share a house with his numerous siblings anymore.

So there is no one there to see him swallow down the Parrot Bay rum and Coke in his glass.

He once wondered what a red pair of lips tasted like, and was secure in the knowledge that one day he would find out. Someday he _will_ , too.

But for now, he only knows what a pink, pink pair of lips taste like, and it's too bad—and the alcohol can't burn it away.

end.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [Tumblr](http://helm-puppet-trash.tumblr.com)!


End file.
